


The Worth of a Wine-cask

by Cuiniel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Enjolras Has Feelings, Grantaire Angst, On The Barricade, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Victor Hugo Pastiche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 22:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17170619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuiniel/pseuds/Cuiniel
Summary: Grantaire takes part in the defense of the barricade, and Enjolras is given the chance to reconsider the man he has long scorned. AU, but the end result is largely the same.





	The Worth of a Wine-cask

 

 _“Long live the Republic! I am one of them.”_  

***

Dawn had only just begun to sweep away the black vestiges of night with its rosy fingers when the battle at the barricades commenced anew.

The revolutionaries had already made the necessary preparations during the long night, and since Enjolras had ordered that a watch be kept at all times, they had sufficient time to arrange themselves at their battle-stations ere the encroaching army came within firing range.

It would be false to say that no hand trembled or that no heart wavered at the barricade as the marching steps of an army many times their strength thundered upon the old cobblestone street. To the revolutionaries, those steps, and the drum beats that directed them, were like onto the ticking of the clock of Death, unstoppable and inevitable. Even bold and light-hearted Courfeyrac could not forbear a faint shudder. But Enjolras their leader was still with them, and Enjolras did not waver in spirit or body. They stood their ground, and did not lose faith.

The army came to a halt, far enough that most of the soldiers were still hidden from the barricade’s view due to a turn in the street. The captain called out for the surrender of the barricade’s defenders.

Little Gavroche’s laughter rang out across the barricade. “Do you wait a while, and maybe we will surrender our bodies to you to be buried!”

Before the captain had a chance to reply, Enjolras cried, “Fire!”

As the sky softened into the warm hues of dawn, battle roared once more in a deadly explosion of gunpowder.

***

Dawn passed, but each new hour saw no abatement in the combat.

In the center section of the barricade, Grantaire was fighting like a man who had no regard for his own safety - in essence, very much like the lovelorn Marius. But while Marius exuded hopelessness and despair, a raging fire was burning in the eyes of Grantaire – eyes that had heretofore housed no semblance of passion or courage.

There were a few moments of respite at the right flank of the barricade, and Combeferre used this time to join Enjolras at his battle-station. 

Combeferre surveyed the barricade with keen eyes, which quickly fell upon Grantaire. He bit his lips, his brow creasing. “He will kill himself.”

No change made itself apparent in the austere face of Enjolras. Coldly he said, “Then let him.”

Combeferre did not reply.

***

The second day of fighting had now progressed for a few hours, hours which to the revolutionaries were as long, weary days. The sun had nearly cleared the top of the barricade, but no one noticed it, nor could even see its radiance through the dirty haze of gunpowder fumes and dust.

Enjolras, though fearless, had nevertheless taken the precaution to situate himself in a shielded niche, midway up the right flank of the barricade. This prudency, together with some strange invincibility, had thus far protected him from harm.

Enjolras had not, however, attempted to hide his position as leader of the rebels, and the soldiers had not failed to notice that it was this golden-haired youth who had held the barricade through a night and morning of great duress. This made him a certain target, and already five soldiers lay dead, having attempted and failed to assassinate him. This was due to the vigilance of both Enjolras as well as his comrades, who held his life above their own.

Grantaire numbered among these. We already know that he held his life little more than worthless; we know also that he held the life of Enjolras more worthy than any other in the world. It is not surprising, therefore, that when Grantaire saw a rifleman positioned at the zenith of the barricade take aim at Enjolras, who, engaged in commanding the revolutionaries, did not notice, that he threw caution to the winds and stumbled over the wreckages of the barricade to reach the rifleman as quickly as he could. He paid no heed to his own safety. The only weapon he had left was a musket, and he had used up all of his cartridges.

The rifleman had already bent his finger to the trigger when Grantaire reached him; it was too late to warn Enjolras.

Grantaire shoved the soldier down and impaled him with the bayonet of his empty musket. The rifleman had only time to feel surprise and a short spurt of agony before he died, drowning in his own blood.

Grantaire tossed away his own firearm and took up the loaded rifle of the dead soldier. As he stood to descend from his vulnerable position, he saw a cannon on the enemy side of the barricade, some distance away and guarded by numerous soldiers.

The incessant barrage of grapeshots from this cannon had been a great trouble to the defenders of the barricade for some time now, but no one had hitherto dared to make an attempt at taking out the soldiers manning the cannon.

His exposed position also afforded Grantaire great range of aim. He knew then that he had an excellent and rare opportunity to deal severe damage to the guards by killing the chief cannoneer, which would buy desperately needed time for the revolutionaries.

Grantaire’s previous reckless charge and assault had, however, drawn the soldiers’ attention, and his place at the summit of the barricade rendered him an easy target. From the periphery of his vision Grantaire could see one of these soldiers turn towards him, loading his musket with great rapidity.

Two immediate choices lay before Grantaire. He had only the one shot left within the rifle by the guard that he had killed. If he used that shot to kill that soldier before the latter killed him, then he would be forced to retreat from his position to seek more ammunition and the chance to take down the cannoneer would be lost; if he instead fired at the cannoneer, then he would almost certainly die right afterwards, for the soldier was but a few paces away, and the National Guard was well trained. And the cannoneer might still live, for he was some distance beyond the barricade, and Grantaire was no hawk-eyed marksman.

Grantaire dwelt no more than a hair-breadth of a second on the first option. He knew he would die regardless, and what good was it to try and save himself? He had no desire to live, and his life he deemed valuable to no one.

He thought of Enjolras, and smiled. He wished only for Enjolras’ grace, and it seemed to him that this was his last chance to win it.

Even as the soldier moved his hand to the trigger of his musket, Grantaire took aim at the cannoneer’s chest – and fired.

A surprised cry emanated from the rearguard. A soldier ran to catch the cannoneer as he fell, blood surging from the wound in his shoulder.

Grantaire had not missed, but neither had he fired a fatal shot.

Ere he had time to reflect, another shot, loud and close-by, rang out to his right.

Like a flag wrenched from its pole, Grantaire jerked as the musket ball penetrated his body on one side and tore through to exit on the other. The force of the shot had carried him slightly off his feet, and for one hazy second he remained upright. Then that second swept away, and he fell, crumpling upon the summit of the barricade. His bloodied and empty rifle slipped from his hand and clattered on to the broken wood beside him.

It so happened that Enjolras looked up at that moment, and he watched as Grantaire’s body, dark against the white morning sky, swayed and collapsed. In that instant Enjolras perceived Grantaire’s noble sacrifice, and it seemed to him that majesty, though not a term he had ever thought to associate with the Wine-cask, now suffused the latter’s entirety.

A great rush of emotion struck Enjolras then. He found that he could not bear for Grantaire to die alone, to die without ever having heard aught but disdain from the leader he had loved and would love till death.

There was a movement to his right. He turned, and saw that it was Combeferre, and that he too had seen Grantaire fall. Wordlessly, they stared at each other; then, as one, they ran up the barricade to where Grantaire had fallen. Shots were fired all around them, but they appeared almost to circumvent Enjolras and Combeferre, and the two were not harmed. Together they lifted Grantaire and brought him to a more sheltered position, where they gently set him down. When they looked into his face, they saw that he was still tenuously alive. Blood flowed in heavy streams from the hole in his side.

The air was quieter now; the assault from the cannon had paused while a new cannoneer was sought for.

Grantaire weakly opened his eyes, and an immense surprise it was to him to see that it was Enjolras who was gazing down at him with concern. Then surprise became disbelief, and disbelief sardonicism; he shaped his lips into a tight, mirthless grin as he said to Enjolras:

“I have displeased you again, no doubt. I do not think I have ever pleased you. That is fine. I have long since abandoned that pursuit. And yet…” Grantaire hesitantly raised a trembling hand, and Enjolras, with a noble tenderness in his eyes, clasped it gently in one of his own.

A glorious smile, free of irony and bitterness, radiated over Grantaire’s face. It was like unto a morning sun rising over a barren earth long cloaked in twilight, and in that moment Grantaire looked as though he had at last beheld the light of hope.

“I am forgiven, then?” he whispered. “All my failings, all my betrayals – you forgive me?”

Most fading souls beg God for forgiveness; Grantaire asked it of Enjolras. And Enjolras – Enjolras, the sole and uncaring receiver of Grantaire’s love and trust; Enjolras, whose only affections lay with his mother Patria and those who served her; Enjolras the martyr, Enjolras the angelic leader – how did Enjolras answer the dying, hopeful pleas of one who had never before known hope?

The golden-haired revolutionary knelt down beside Grantaire, his brilliant eyes flecked with pity. He appeared to be in deep thought, and did not speak. Grantaire took Enjolras’ silence as a sign of apathy, and despair crept over his countenance.

“Say then, at least,” said Grantaire, his voice growing hoarser, “that my coming was not a waste. Say that I have not shamed you today. And say that…”

Enjolras and Combeferre frowned as they saw Grantaire’s eyes suddenly widen in fear. Then they startled backwards, for Grantaire, with a strength and swiftness inconceivable for a dying man, had leapt up from his prone position and thrown himself forward in front of Enjolras.

The report of a gun rang out from somewhere above the three revolutionaries. Grantaire crumpled to the ground, and ceased to move.

For a moment Enjolras stared at Grantaire’s limp form, shock widening his eyes for perhaps the first time in his life. Then his face turned grim, and drawing his pistol, he took aim at the soldier that had meant to take his life. The soldier, a grenadier, had just finished reloading, and was even now lowering his rifle to fire once more – but Enjolras shot first.

His aim was true, and with an explosion of gunpowder the soldier fell, blood bursting from his head, on to the fragmented wood of the barricade.

This deed of vengeance being done, Enjolras and Combeferre knelt down beside Grantaire, whom they were grateful to see was still alive. Yet they knew it would not last.

Grantaire’s vest was now more red than black, so effusive was the flow of blood from his two wounds, both of which were mortal. One alone would have been enough to kill him; a second served only to accelerate his death. Combeferre, out of instinct, pressed his hands against the bloody hole in Grantaire’s side, though he knew with certainty that it would be to no avail. Grantaire paid it no attention, his gaze focused on Enjolras as if nothing else existed in the world. In a weak whisper, strengthened by emotion and sweetened by the finality of death, he said to Enjolras:

“You have told me, I think, that I am incapable of anything honorable, that I cannot fight, nor believe, nor live, nor even die for a greater cause. I have never disputed the truth of your words, for they are correct – mostly correct. But when you spoke thus you did not consider all that which may constitute a worthy cause. You spoke of liberty, freedom, equality – what are they to me? I had – I still have – little faith in such immaterial ideals. But I think you did me some small injustice, Enjolras, in labeling me as you did, if not in giving me your scorn and disdain. Apollo – Enjolras –”

A bout of harsh coughing interrupted Grantaire’s appeal. With each torturous spasm of his body more blood spilled forth from the two gaping holes in his abdomen and his chest.

It was several long, agonizing moments ere the dying man regained breath and strength enough to resume his speech. His eyes were bright with soft emotion; they did not yet close. Serene and majestic he appeared even to Enjolras, strong and courageous now upon his deathbed as he had not been in life.

“Have you never wondered why I remained with the Friends for all these years, Enjolras? I shall tell you. It was because of you. You say that I believe in nothing? I believe in you. You say that I cannot live? I have lived for you. And here on this barricade, which is to be the tomb of us all, perchance I have shown that I can fight for you. And now – happily – I die for you.”

With his last breath Grantaire delivered these words; then the Wine-cask of the Corinthe passed into the keeping of the Lord. For the space of a few breaths it seemed that he remained in the land of the living, for his eyes, whose last sight had been the still-radiant face of Enjolras, remained open, and his smile, joyful and carefree, was not yet stiff upon his lips. But dead he was, the last act of his life his best and noblest.

Combeferre sighed, and tenderly pressed his lips to the back of Grantaire’s hand. “I would that one of us could live past this day, if only to tell the tale of this man and his valiant deeds. From drunkard to martyr in the space of a sunrise! ‘Tis a thing unheard of, till now. Alas! for we are the only ones to know of it, and we will all of us be buried today beneath the ruins of this barricade, and knowledge of his courage with us.”

A thunderous explosion followed by an ominous splintering of wood and agonized cries interrupted the two comrades’ mourning. From the opposite flank of the barricade Courfeyrac cried, “Enjolras! They have brought more cannons!” As Courfeyrac searched with his eyes for his leader, he saw him kneeling beside the bloody and unmoving body of Grantaire, and his grip on his musket tightened as a wave of sorrow passed through him. But another onslaught of grapeshot landed close to him, and he was forced to wrench his attention back to the battle at hand.

Enjolras made to rise, but Combeferre stopped him gently with a hand on his shoulder. “I will go and succor him. Grantaire deserves to hear kind words from you. Speak to him. Though his soul is now departed from Earth, he will hear you.”

Two instincts warred within Enjolras, that of a chief and that of a man. He was the leader; he could not abandon his post! The cannons posed a new threat, and he ought to meet it. But Combeferre spoke truly, and if he left Grantaire now, he would not have the chance to speak to him again; the encroaching army would make sure of that. The battle was lost, and he, and all of his companions, would be dead ere the day’s end. He had known this for many hours now. He still fought because he would not surrender; he fought for liberty and equality and peace, because he knew that those forces would be victorious in the end; if not now, then in ten years, if not then, then in fifty years, or a thousand, but one day.

But now Grantaire awaited him, and he knew that fighting could wait a little while.“You have failed no one and betrayed no one but yourself and the country that we serve,” said Enjolras, finally addressing Grantaire’s earlier beseech. “It is not my place to forgive you, for you do not need my forgiveness. No, indeed, I…” A cannon shot shook the earth, and he faltered as he had never faltered in speech before. “Oh Grantaire, _you_ must forgive _me_! For you possessed courage and faith beyond aught that I ever dreamt existed within you. Would that you had given your loyalty and your love to another – you may have lived beyond this day, and perhaps you would have been happier all these years. But I will not now dishonour your deed with might-have-beens and regrets. I thank you and commend you, Grantaire, for the valor you have just now shown. I will think ill of you no more.”

With a gentle hand Enjolras raised Grantaire’s head and bowed low to press his lips against the cold, marble-white forehead. He gathered the fallen warrior in his arms and carried him to a niche in the wall near the door to the Café Musain. He laid him down with a tremulous mixture of pity, regret, and gratitude; then, standing, he raised his arm in a reverant and solemn salute.

When the battle eventually drew to a close and all the defenders of the barricade were either dead or about to be, Enjolras stood in the backroom of the Musain before the raised weapons of a dozen guards, defiance and faith ever strong within his heart.

The report of many guns sounded, and he fell, an incomplete smile frozen in his face. Alone, Enjolras died upon the twilight of revolution.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this many years ago for fanfiction.net, but news of the upcoming BBC adaptation (however many qualms I have about Andrew Davies' interpretation based on his interviews) has re-invigorated my Les Mis obsession, so I thought I'd share it with the fandom again. As heart-wrenchingly beautiful as E and R's deaths were in the book, I always yearned for a longer conclusion for them, hence this fic. Please review if you have any thoughts at all!


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